


Not Quite a Coffee Shop AU

by kissmelikeapirate



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Coffee Shops, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 10:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11146560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmelikeapirate/pseuds/kissmelikeapirate
Summary: She needs a second job and The Library needs a barista. Who knew she would end up with more than free coffee?





	Not Quite a Coffee Shop AU

The first time Emma Swan tastes coffee, she is six. Her foster mom leaves a cup unattended as she goes to answer the phone (one of those old kinds with the long, twirling cords that is attached to the wall). It’s bitter. And hot. It burns her tongue and she hates it.

***

When she is 14 it becomes cool to hang out at the coffee shop, drinking beverages that are more milk than anything else. She has a crush on the barista with the blue streak in his hair. He kisses her behind the store. He tastes like cigarettes. He asks her out on a date but doesn’t turn up at the fair. 

She hates coffee again.

***

At 16, she meets Neal. He takes her to an empty fairground and buys her coffee. (The irony is not lost on her.) She sips and listens as he talks of home and wanting; she falls for him a little after only knowing him for a few hours. He’s real and vital and understands what it’s like: being alone. Feeling lost.

***

(She should have known it wouldn’t last. Then she’s alone again.)

***

Years later and it’s become her drug of choice on those cold nights where she needs to stay awake. Bail bonds isn’t glamorous, but it can be lucrative. It’s just unpredictable. Coffee… well, it isn’t. Even the instant kind that clings to the back of your throat has a strange kind of comfort when it’s 4 am and you’ve stared at the same door for six hours.

\---------

In fairness, it wasn’t the worst second job. And the extra income meant no need to get a roommate.

(Less said about her foray into that, the better.)

And she is pretty good at it. Making coffee, that is.

For the past two weeks, three mornings a week and all day Sunday, she has worked the Electro, a beautiful retro-style piece of machinery, all glossy cream enamel and gleaming chrome. In the quiet moments she polishes the surfaces to a mirror-shine. She has a weird kinda pride in her work. Crafting the drinks is a skill, she’s learned, proportions and temperatures mingle with creative flair and ( _ she admits _ ) a passion. It helps that Belle is such a good boss, so encouraging and kind. Almost a friend, she’d hesitate to say.

(Not that Emma Swan really does friends, but that’s another story.)

***

It isn’t like he’s easy to miss. Tall, dark, handsome.

_ Easy on the eyes. _

He must be a regular, she thinks, as she watches the man nod at Belle behind the counter, the owner of  _ The Library _ scribbling down an order with only a smile passing between them. 

Emma glances at him over the coffee machine; he’s brushing his hair back with his right hand, she can hear the soft crinkle of the leather of his jacket. She looks away as she takes the order from Belle. Large Americano. Easy. Quick.

(She’s a little disappointed. He’s gorgeous and she likes looking at his glossy dark hair and the pleasing line of his jaw.)

(The job  _ has _ to have some perks. Beyond the free coffee.)

She carefully heats the water, monitoring the temperature so as not to scald the blend. Freshly ground beans fill the air with their thick aroma as she prepares one of the shop’s paper cups. As she reaches for a lid, she looks over again- sees that he is perusing one of the small stacks of books that Belle always kept about the place, his fingers running across the cloth cover of a particularly old volume.

(She tries not to imagine those fingers running over her bare skin.)

“Americano,” she calls out. Pointlessly, as he is the only customer waiting.

But the smile he gives her is worth it, warm, bright and wide; he nods as he picks up the cup and her heart beats just a little faster.

“Thanks love,” he murmurs, the hint of an accent coating his words

She wishes he would stay: that he was one of those who would sit for hours, reading the books, nursing their coffee.

Of course he isn’t, and a moment later he leaves. 

***

She sees him again. And again.

There is no pattern to his visits. Different times and days. She wonders what he does. He always wears the black leather jacket that she saw him in the first time. Jeans, just the right side of tight, hug his hips. Sometimes he wears a shirt, sometimes a henley. Always orders the same. Americano. Black.

It’s on his third visit she sees he is missing his left hand, the prosthesis in its place is cleverly lifelike. She tries not to stare as her mind burns with curiosity. 

She  _ wants  _ to know him.

The ninth time she sees him ( _ not that she is counting... _ ), she learns his name.

_ Killian,  _ Belle chirps as he walks into the store. Emma watches him smile. She’s begun to live for that smile. The dimples that punctuate his cheeks and the even spread of this teeth. The way his lips stretch and curve. The little crinkles around his eyes.

It’s been a long time since she has had a crush.

(Crushes lead to feelings and situations that she has sworn to avoid.)

But she can’t deny it any more, this is a crush. A big one.

He gives her her own special smile when she slides the paper cup across the counter. A little smaller- more intimate. A soft thank you on his lips that makes her cheeks redden as she watches him leave.

Oh she loves to watch him leave.

The slight swagger in his walk, the confident bearing of his shoulders.

With a sigh, she files away that thought.

***

She knows little more than his name.

But she likes that. She can indulge herself in her attraction. He can be whoever she wants: a lover, a cad, a thinker. In those moments, where she is staking out a skip, sitting in her car until her fingers and toes turn to ice, she warms herself with fantasies of him. 

Killian: her knight in shining armour. A bold, romantic hero who sweeps her off her feet. A man who offers her everything and more.

It’s a silly little fantasy, but she enjoys it all the same.

***

With a barely stifled yawn, she enters the shop. It’s just past 6:30 am and the Sunday streets are quiet and contemplative. Inside, it is silent as she pulls her apron from the cotton bag over her shoulder and slips off her jacket. Belle will be in the office, getting today’s till ready and it is Emma’s job to fire up the coffee machine and get the supplies for the day in order. She’s opening a fresh carton of milk when she hears footsteps.

“Hey Belle,” she calls.

“Hello.”

_ What... _

She whips around, the milk splattering out of the carton and onto the floor.

His brow is raised, looking at her with amusement as her mouth falls open.

It’s him. Killian. With a standard issue  _ Library  _ apron around his waist and a bag of coins and bills in his hand.

It takes her a second to compose herself (and fight back the urge to blush- damn, he’s even more handsome with sleepy eyes and untamed hair).

“You’re not Belle,” she says, her words cautious as she sets down the carton and folds her arms.

“Observant,” he nods, placing the bag on the counter next to the milk, getting closer to her than he has even been without the oak barrier between them. She sucks in a breath that is painfully scented with a scent of soap and gentleman’s cologne. Then he shrugs. “She’s sick.”

Emma nods, taking in his words, forcing her attraction to the back of her mind as he goes about filling the till, still confused as fuck about what is happening.

“Right…” she hums while she tucks her hair behind her ears. She clears her throat. “And you…”

He looks up and something seems to click in his head. He wipes his hand on his apron and holds it out to her. “Killian Jones, partner in this business. Usually the silent one, in case that wasn’t obvious.”

She took his hand and shook it. It was large, engulfing hers and making her feel pathetically feminine while she digested the information. She’s always assumed Belle owned the place in full. Not that she’d ever asked.

While he finishes his task, she tidies up the floor, mopping up the milk in silence. The little glances his way are perhaps inappropriate, but she can’t help it. She’s taken by the way he uses his prosthesis with such finesse and ease and the sharp contrast between the flesh, real and artificial. Her eyes linger on the fine dark hairs of his forearms and the curve of his biceps that hints of hidden strength. The attraction burns brighter the longer she is near.

He’s finishing up as seven am - opening time - approaches.

“Emma, can you man the fort for a little, I have a few things to attend to.”

“You know my name?” she whispers, before she can think better off it.

( _ She is wearing a name badge… _ )

He gives her that same little smile he has before, his bottom lip briefly slipping between his teeth as he nods.

“Of course I do, love,” he replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

***

_ It’s not a one time thing. _

A week later, he’s there again.

(“Belle needed the day off,” he explained.)

And then some days later, once more he is behind the counter. “I thought you were the silent partner?” she teases.

He just smiles.

Before she knows it, it’s a regular occurrence. At least once a week she works with him.

A friendship slowly forms.

She learns he works as deputy harbourmaster. 

(Some days he smells like the sea, salty and fresh.)

He’s English by birth, but has lived in Boston for almost fifteen years. 

He hates peas.

She tells him a little about her other job, working bail bonds. He seems impressed, making quips about making sure he stays in line. 

He learns her favorite drink is cocoa. He starts making her one each time they work together, with fresh whipped cream and cinnamon on top just like she prefers. He has one ready for her when she arrives for work one morning…

(Her heart stutters…)

She tells him she was in foster care. He quietly tells her of his own losses.

Mostly, though, they work quietly side by side. With ease and harmony that just seems to click.  The shop never gets super busy, but the steady stream of customers make every shift speed by, leaving her with an unfamiliar sensation of longing and want when she takes off her apron and leaves for the short walk to her apartment.

Maybe she imagines the way his eyes follow her as she leaves, or the hint of melancholy as he says, “Goodbye Swan.”

(He’s insisted on calling her that since he learned her last name. Said it suited her. She doesn’t mind.)

Actually, she likes it. It is a thing: their thing.

She calls him Jones in reply.)

If she likes him, what’s the harm?

_ It’s a crush. _

***

She’s an hour out of the city when she notices.

Her phone: gone, missing for she isn’t even sure how long. And she needs her goddamn phone.

Of course it isn’t in her apartment, which leaves only the coffee shop. She texts Belle.

Belle:

_ Oh Em, I’m out at the Cape right now. But Killian could swing by and open up for you. _

Emma:

You sure?

Belle:

_ He won’t mind. Trust me. ;) _

She’s dancing around from foot to foot outside _ The Library _ when she hears his clipped footsteps.

She shivers.

(Because it’s cold.)

“Evening Swan,” he says as he reaches her.

“Jones,” she nods, smiling despite herself. “Thanks for this,” she adds as he digs a bunch of keys from his pocket.

He looks over at her through his lashes and she swears he’s never looked sexier as he smirks. “As if I would turn down the chance to rescue a damsel in distress.”

“Please,” she pants, rolling her eyes even as her stomach contracts.

The door swings open and he allows her to move ahead. It’s dark inside, the blinds drawn, but there is enough light peeking through from the street lamps to allow her to find her way into the break room and locate her phone where it had slipped from her purse and between the cushions of the tiny couch there.

With a grimace, she sees the skip she was chasing has been apprehended. She shoves the phone into her pocket in frustration. A whole wasted evening.

“Alright love?” Killian asks as she enters the main area again. 

She huffs out a sigh. “Just a job that didn’t work out. Happens a lot.”

Stuffing her hands in the pocket of her jacket, she pauses a moment. He’s staring at her, but she can’t find herself to mind. The sparse light provided by the optics cast a warm glow on his face. He seems deep in thought.

“Well,” she begins, already planning an evening of take out and crappy tv.

He steps forward, placing his hands on the countertop. “Fancy a drink? I find it always soothes a disappointment.”

Her shoulders lightly rise. “Coffee makes me wired.”

She watches as he raises a brow before reaching behind the counter and pulling out an almost full bottle of whiskey. 

“How about I sweeten it?” he offers.

She bites her lip, a half second of doubt before she tosses back her head so her chin raises. “You get the glasses and I’ll make the coffee.”

Disappointment about the lost job fades as she heats up the Electro, grinding the beans and frothing up a pot of milk. The ritual is soothing. It occurs to her how important it has became in the past few months; providing order in her chaotic life. The hours of waiting for jobs and chasing down skips contrasting strongly with the regimen of  _ grind, steam, pour _ .

It’s only when she sits down that she realizes that he has turned on the jukebox that Belle had installed in the shop: it’s a gentle stream of jazz. Easy. Soft. Killian pours a generous measure of whiskey into each glass.

“To the shit life brings,” he announces as he raises his drink.

Emma can’t help but smile as she tips her cup towards his.

“I hear ya.”

The whiskey gives the coffee a strange sweetness. 

For a minute, she listens to the music as the liquor warms her belly. She writes off the lost skip. There will be another tomorrow. Always is.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

She offers him a crooked smile.

“Isn’t that cliche?”

He leans back a little. “Perhaps.”

She runs her tongue over her lips. Bitterness and sweetness mingle. 

Pressed up against the front of her boots, her toes begin to cramp. She uses each opposite foot to ease them forward as she rests on her forearms. “I guess I’m just musing on the old ‘easy come, easy go’.”

“I take it your line of work isn’t always the simplest?”

She shrugs. “Well I’m working here aren’t I?” He doesn’t speak and she takes another sip. The drink settles pleasantly in her stomach. “It’s famine or feast. Some months I do great, others not. This job means at least I can pay for the basics when things get tough.”

Thoughtfully, he nods. She shrinks back a little when she realizes she has revealed a lot more about her circumstances.

Wracking her brain, she thinks of a change of topic.

“Um, but you. A coffee shop? What made you do… this?”

His eyes flicker closed and she feels she has hit a nerve. She wants to back track but his hands are circling his mug and he is drawing closer to her across the table before she can react.

“Long story?”

He wordlessly shrugs. Then he pours another measure of whiskey into each glass.

“I was a Navy lad, as was my older brother. Mother encouraged it, thought it would help us feel more American.” He rolls his eyes. He takes a sip.”Anyway, long story short, my brother died during a training exercise. Same time I did this.” He raises his left arm.

Emma reaches out a soothing hand but pauses before she reaches him. “He made me sole beneficiary of his life insurance. I used some of the money to buy an apartment when I left the service and then some time later Belle wanted to do this,” he gestures to the space around them, “And I offered to help.”

She raises her brows as her fingers find the sleeve of his shirt. “Wow, that’s. Wow. I take it you’re good friends?”

Nodding, he sighs softly. “Very. She helped me out when I left the service and was a little… lost? She volunteers at the Veterans Association, helping sods like me learn to be civilians. We just clicked.”

_ Oh _ , Emma thinks, her stomach crashing to the floor.

_ Clicked. _

Like, they had something-

“So you two..?” she asks, her fingers curling back into her palm, her back straightening a little as she just feels foolish and silly and-

His eyes narrow. She can see he is thinking, until his eyes widen. “Belle and I?” He laughs warmly and while the sound softens the twist of her gut, it also reddens her cheeks-

(Or maybe that is the liquor.)

“She’s like a younger sister to me,” he explains, leaning forward a little. A lock of hair falls across his forehead. She wants to brush it back.

(Is it as soft as it seems? Would his eyes flicker closed at her touch? Would he lean into it, letting her palm press against his cheek?)

  
“Oh,” she says aloud.

“My dearest friend,” he adds, before frowning, “My only friend really.”

She sees the way he presses his eyes closed, like he wishes he hadn’t revealed that nugget of information. Emma softens. She sees herself in him, in a little lost.

“I’m a little low on the friend count too,” she admits. “Work, you know…”

Then she thinks better of that.

“Actually, that’s not strictly true. I guess I just take a while to warm up to people. To trust them.”

He quickly licks his lips and her heart jumps a little in her chest.

“I hope you can consider me a friend,” he whispers.

It only takes her a second to nod.

With that, Killian tilts his head, his eyes fixed on her. He picks up his cup and raises it.

“To new friends.”

She echoes the sentiment and tips her cup against his and then takes a sip.

They descend into silence, listening to the soothing music, the quiet comfortable and easy.

Without asking, Emma replenishes the coffees. He smiles in thanks.

Then they talk. And talk.

About everything and nothings. It’s easy and gentle and Emma feels herself clinging to every moment, lingering on every word he speaks, spellbound by his eloquence and wit.

Then she looks at the clock, and notices it’s almost ten pm.

“Wow, it’s getting late,” she reluctantly announces.

He simply nods, picking up their cups and taking them to the dishwasher as she shuts down the Electro and tidies up the work area.

It’s so cliche: they both make to leave through the small gap in the counter at the same time. Their hips clash. She blushes. He turns and then they are both caught in the small space. Her head falling back so she can look in his eyes.

God, she wants him to kiss her. She wants to feel that hand in her hair, for his other arm to pull her close.

And she’s sure she feels it from him, the pull, the tug-

But he hesitates. His eyes slipping between her eyes and her lips.

“Emma…” he says, his voice thick. “I’m your boss… This is…”

His words trail off. Her chin falls.

She gets it. He is (technically) her employer. This would probably break a rule or a law, right?

But then her reaches for that chin, and tips it up and her heart swells again with hope.

“But that’s not really it,” he added. “I’ve just been alone for so long.”

Emma hums in understanding. She’s lost track of just how long it’s been since her last (bad) relationship. “Me too,” she whispers.

His hand slips to her shoulder. “When I lost my first love, I was so sure no one could ever compare. But then I met you.”

Her heart began to stutter, a tingling in her limbs that made her body feel foreign. “You barely know me…”

“Perhaps,” he nods, “But to me you are an open book. A kindred spirit if you will.”

The comfort and ease she had felt with him: it was a mutual feeling. Like they were meant to know each other (as corny as that sounded).

“I know what you mean,” she smiles, tentatively placing her palms on his chest, letting them draw closer to each other. “I _ like _ you, Killian.”

And damn she feels like she is in sixth grade again telling Billy Cooper she has a crush on him-

But Billy Cooper didn’t smile at her the way Killian is, like she is the source of everything that is good with the world. A smile of happiness and hope and possibility.

“I like you too,” he drawls, his mouth falling to hers as the last word slips between his lips.

Soft lips. Softer than she could have imagined, gentle and tender at first, probing and a little unsure. An arm slips behind her back, fingers thread through her hair. His hips lock against hers, her ass pressing against the countertop. Her arms loop around his neck as she reaches up on her toes, chasing his kiss, her heart soaring as it turns more passionate. His tongue slides past her lips. His grip on her tightens. She’s breathless and lightheaded and it’s wonderful and crazy and unexpected-

Finally, he presses a small (reluctant) kiss against her lips. They both take deep breaths.

“That was…”

She grins.

(It’s definitely more than a crush.)

“Something we should explore elsewhere?” she suggests.

He raises a brow and she’s pretty sure it’s the sexiest thing she’s seen in forever.

“I like your thinking, Swan.”

And with that, he links their hands and they leave the cafe.

***

He wakes her with fresh coffee. She smiles at the taste of the familiar  _ Library _ blend.

They spend the next day in bed, talking, laughing, exploring each other.

She likes him.

_ She likes him, a lot. _

***

Soon, she sees him every day.

She’s as much at his place as hers.

Belle thinks it’s  _ wonderful _ .

(Emma thinks he is wonderful.)

***

He tells her he’s in love with her one cold winter morning as they open up the cafe. 

She echoes the sentiment with a promise-filled kiss and they seal their new feelings with an Americano and a cocoa. (Saving more for later-)

She’d never dreamed that needing to take on a second job could have led to this.

***

She definitely likes coffee again.

(Especially tasting it on his lips.)

 


End file.
